


il était (sous) raide

by Skaptason



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: !!, Coming Out, Las Vegas, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Sharing a Bed, Vancouver Canucks, fortuitous vegas birthday roadie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:00:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20980793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skaptason/pseuds/Skaptason
Summary: Elias had definitely never planned to tell Brock that he was gay.He certainly wasn't planning on coming out to Brock on his freaking birthday, while flat-out drunk at some random bar in the middle of Vegas after smashing the Knights 6-1. It's sort of the worst possible time to do it, actually.Go figure.





	1. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas?

**Author's Note:**

> okay so;
> 
> first - they don't actually have a fortuitous roadie in Vegas on Elias' birthday, but I decided to take some artistic liberty because they'll be in vancouver and that doesn't really have the same, well, je ne sais quoi. sorry vancity? love you <3
> 
> second - HUGE thanks to L for reading through and helping the language mistakes, but i did rush her so if the english is a bit off at times, that's my fault. I'm sorry.
> 
> final - rpf disclaimers apply. If you or anyone you know are mentioned in the tags, please exit. do not read. it is better for all of us. I don't want to get sued. this is complete and utter fiction, everything that isnt is public knowledge, etc

Elias had definitely never planned to tell Brock that he was gay. Even in the literal best case scenario he could only imagine what a train wreck that would be. The results he thinks up when he wants to torture himself range from excruciating awkwardness to a flat out breaking off of their friendship. (Even if he doesn't _ really _ think that Brock is that kinda guy, being overly wary sort of comes with the territory.)

So no, he wasn't planning on coming out to his linemate.

He definitely wasn't planning on coming out to his linemate _on his freaking_ _birthday_, in _Vegas, _while drunk as hell on horribly overpriced vodka martinis.

\---

The problem was Brock's puppy eyes. The puppy eyes he brought out when he told Elias that he'd had to find out the date of his 21st birthday from _ Wikipedia_, because Elias hadn't deigned him a good enough friend to just tell him, or whatever. The real truth is that Elias does not, in any way, trust Brock Boeser with the power that comes from knowing a teammate's birthday.

Especially with knowing that a teammate's birthday falls on a fortuitous roadie, especially when they'll actually be _ in Vegas _ on the night.

But Elias couldn't resist the puppy eyes when Brock asked him if he could organise something. He said yes, of course he did. He was sort of hoping Brock would be the kind to show some restraint.

\---

The idea of restraint is pretty hilarious, by this point.

Elias is somewhere in Vegas, that he knows. He's completely, utterly drunk and so is everyone else, and they're in the private back rooms of some club—one he knows must have cost a fortune to hire.

And there's a stripper. Because this is Vegas, and it's his birthday.

Someone, and Elias is fairly sure it's not Brock—although he's too plastered to say for certain—has hired a dancer and directed her to Elias. He absently decides that as soon as he's sober, whoever sicced the half-naked woman on him is gonna _ get it,_ and not in a good way.

Is isn’t that she's not good-looking, exactly—despite what some might say, Elias is aware enough to know that she is actually very attractive. She just doesn't attract _ him._

It's not her fault, really. 

She's doing her job, and as far as his very amateur judgement goes, he thinks she's doing it pretty well. As well as one_ can _ do a lapdance for someone who's never gonna be into it.

Elias is sure that his face is red, but it's not at all for the reason the boys would assume. It's fortunate that his reluctance and embarrassment can be passed off as—well, reluctance and embarrassment, just of a different vein. But it's not fun knowing that he kind of just has to grin and bear it, because what single straight man would decline a lapdance, right?

Eventually the hellish awkwardness of holding eye contact with the girl gets to be unbearable, though. He clears his throat, and with as much decorum as he can muster after far too many shots, tries to let her down gently.

"I'm sorry," he says, wincing at how English does _ not _ want to cooperate. He'd be surprised if she could understand what he's saying at all. He tries again.

"I'm sorry, could you stop?"

She definitely understood that. The mask of interest falls off her face—it only hurts a _ little _bit, knowing it was fake—and she frowns in a way that seems almost dejected.

"What did I do?" She asks, startling him with a broad American accent that he's almost too drunk to decipher.

"It's not you" Elias says, although it doesn't clear that frown off her face. And his drunken brain decides there's only one thing he can say that will make her understand that it really isn't her fault.

"I'm gay," he adds apologetically. She pulls back even further but he thinks she looks less worried. There's no longer a crease between her perfectly-shaped eyebrows.

(Drunk as he is, Elias is sort of jealous of her eyebrows.)

“Alright," she replies, easily enough. It really was as simple as telling her. “Uh—I’ll be goin’ then. Enjoy your birthday!”

Some of the guys call out in question as she slips away through a doorway but Elias feels like he can breathe for the first time tonight.

He calls it a success. And then he realises what he just _ said._

Elias' head snaps over to Brock, who was sitting close on his right last time he checked (almost _ too _ close considering the stripper, really, but that’s besides the point).

With a horrible sinking feeling Elias remembers too late how shitty his volume control is after a couple drinks, because—

Brock’s face has frozen into a horrible taken-aback expression and his entire body is way too still to be any sort of relaxed.

_ Shit. _

Elias turns to the table where he’d put down his cocktail and picks it back up again. 

(He doesn’t really understand how excited the boys were for him to drink his first legal cocktail in the states. Especially since they literally all live in BC where he’s been able to drink for two whole years. Again, though, besides the point.)

"Elias…" Brock starts, sounding choked and all sorts of terrible.

Ah well. If he accidentally comes out to his linemate because of alcohol he can sure try and forget about it with alcohol. Elias downs the whole thing, barely even choking on the bitter taste of martini.

He doesn’t look back in Brock’s direction for a very long while. When he does, eventually, he sees that Brock has passed out spread across the couch, his leg pressing against Elias’ and his head rolled onto his shoulder.

It doesn’t look like he’s found out what should be a devastating piece of information. He doesn’t look all tense and frozen like he did earlier. But Brock has always been weirdly skilled at sleeping in any situation. Elias hopes he is actually chill with it and it’s not just the alcohol making him dumb and drowsy. Then he thinks that maybe he should hope that it _ is,_ and that Brock will have forgotten all this by the morning. 

\---

Elias thinks he's dreaming when he wakes up in bed with Brock.

But no, the pounding in his head suggests otherwise. He sits up and groans at the bright light streaming through the unclosed blinds of their hotel room, and the movement dislodges a warm weight that had been laying on his waist.

The warm, heavy weight of a bare arm. He looks down sharply, and—yeah, that’s definitely _ Brock’s _ arm. What the actual _ fuck._

He takes a few minutes. Then a few more. It requires a significant amount of brainpower to process the fact that he apparently spent the night in bed with his teammate. Like, actually, in the literal sense of the phrase, _ slept with _ his liney.

(God, he hopes it was only the literal sense. Or does he not?

—yes, yes, he absolutely does. Considering that Brock is definitely straight and was drunk beyond imagine last night. There would one hundred percent be some consent issues if anything happened besides sleeping.)

Not nearly enough time has passed before Brock wakes up, groaning and rolling onto his back with his hands over his face. Elias can understand the feeling.

"Man, how much did we _ drink?_" Brock half mumbles—in that way Americans have, where it's almost impossible to make out the words they're saying. Elias has had a lot of practice with Brock, though, so he can just about follow most of the time. He actually finds it pretty endearing at this stage. Which is probably not a good sign.

He laughs. 

"Far too much," he replies, not quite blindsided enough to find Brock's inability to tolerate hangovers unamusing.

But then Brock startles, and pulls his hands away from his eyes, and stares at Elias with surprise and something else that's impossible to parse. Most likely because he expected Elias' reply to come from the other bed and not like, half a metre away.

“Uh,” Brock says eloquently. “Why are you in my bed?”

Elias rolls his eyes and tries_ very hard _ to exude cool annoyance as he clambers upright to get some Tylenol. There’s probably a packet in his bag, if he had any forethought about the fact that they’d be in Vegas on his freaking 21st.

“Why are you in _ my _ bed?” he retorts.

He’s digging in his holdall so he doesn’t see Brock’s face, but he hears the put-upon scoff and smiles to himself.

“I think it’s pretty obvious,” he continues, taking pity on his poor hungover teammate who’s probably wearing his usual stop-being-sarcastic-Elias puppy eyes. He’s not quite prepared to turn around and see them—because Brock’s still in bed and mostly naked, and he doesn’t need that mental image—but he knows they're out in force.

“Right," Brock says, but he sounds a bit off and Elias can’t work out why. It _ is _ obvious; they stumbled late into the hotel room and drunkenly got into the same bed. They most likely got into their usual argument about whose bed it technically was but passed out before anyone gave in and moved to the other one. It’s not like they haven’t done stuff like that before. Stupid arguments and bed-hogging, et cetera.

He finds the Tylenol and downs a few before throwing the box at Brock and heading for a shower, despite the fact that he still feels like an absolute heap of shit. He’s always been better in the mornings than Brock. As soon as the drugs kick in, all he’ll need is a wash and some coffee until he’s more or less functional.

He still waits, though, so they can go down to breakfast together, and when they finally get there he steers Brock into a chair and looks pointedly at Bo until the guy’s guilted into passing over the coffee he just brought to the table. Because Bo’s brilliant, he only sighs and goes to get another cup, bringing a few pastries with him and offering them to Brock as well. Elias doubts it's enough to cheer him up, but figures pastries are as good a shot as anyone's got.

Brock’s actually way more cheerful than Elias would have expected, though. He's chirping Bo about being the team dad and smiling broadly at the guys who turn up later, and even participating in the table’s conversation about how crazy Vegas and its fans are. He looks—

Well, he looks happy, okay. And not like his best friend just accidentally came out to him. He hasn't said a word to acknowledge it. Elias allows himself to relax, because it’s obvious now that last night has been forgotten, just like he hoped. 

Brock gives him a winning smile over his coffee cup, cheeks pink from the heat of it, and Elias feels that tight coil of anxiety unwind slowly in his stomach like an unfurling leaf of bracken.

\---

Brock seems a bit weird this morning, though, totally separate to the coming out thing. Elias is probably imagining it but they pack up with Brock’s travel playlist blasting from his portable speakers and he keeps shooting him these little smiles. In fact, he basically hasn’t stopped smiling since his first sip of coffee. And considering how his usual hangover mood is surly and short and a permanently furrowed forehead, it’s a little uncanny.

Plus the way he seems glued to Elias’ side. Like, okay, they’re often together, especially on the road when they share a room, but this is different. Brock helps Elias with the last of his packing and waits for him before going downstairs, even though the guys already down there would definitely be better company than Elias, who's fretting and talking himself through everything one last time. 

He sticks close as they get the elevator as well, close enough their shoulders are brushing. And he basically doesn’t let Elias out of his sight until they’re sat (together, of course) on the coach that’s going to take them to the airport. 

Either Brock is doing something on purpose, or Elias is going crazy.

Brock slings his arm across Elias’ shoulders once they’re both settled, and pulls him in. Elias is too shocked to do anything except go with it. Eventually he ends up relaxing despite himself, and he realises that the feeling of Brock pressed against him, warm and solid, is actually really… nice.

Nice, yeah.

\---

But then when they get to their hotel in San Jose, it all gets a shit ton weirder.

Brock collects the keys and they catch the elevator up with a couple other guys. They’re rowdy with restless energy, jostling and chirping loudly enough to make Elias desperate to escape. He all but sprints out of the door once they get to the third floor, not caring if Brock is following.

Which is stupid, because Brock has both keycards. But whatever.

Elias has to wait at their door as Brock ambles along the corridor, trying his hardest to keep a scathing expression on his face. He doesn’t think it works, because Brock just grins at him.

“You’re adorable,” Brock says, unprompted, when he gets close enough, and it doesn't sound like a chirp.

Elias has no response. Like, none at all. All he can do is snatch the key and turn towards the door to try and hide the way his cheeks flare up.

Once they’re inside, he dumps his shit on the window bed (because, of course. The window is always the best side). He’s still a little hungover and completely not in the mood to deal with Brock being antagonistic about his choice of bed. Though, to be fair to him, he can normally tell when Elias isn’t in the mood and stay off the subject.

Not this time. Elias barely registers the way the bed creaks horrifyingly under the weight before Brock is slinging his own stuff on the bed too. He turns, slowly, in that way he knows creeps Brock out, absolutely ready to explode if that’s what he needs to do to get the bed he wants. Except Brock doesn’t look like he’s trying to get on Elias’ nerves. Like, at all.

An easy smile falls off his face and he looks _ apologetic,_ cheeks as red as Elias has ever seen them. He takes a step back from where he was sort of too close.

“Ah, sorry, you—” Brock starts, and slowly reaches for his bag. “I just thought—”

“What?” Elias asks maybe a little too confrontational, because even though he’s completely confused he is also absolutely ready to fight a man for his window spot.

“My bad,” Brock says, still red as hell. “I kinda assumed we’d be sharing, but obviously that’s not—?”

_ What? _

Elias lets it hang in the air too long and before a single sound makes it out his mouth, Brock is turning and putting his stuff down on the other bed. He's mumbling something about going to meet up with Stech and Bo down where the pool tables are, and leaving.

What. The. Fuck.

\---

Elias still hasn’t worked out why Brock thought they were sharing a bed when they all file into the practise rink for a quick evening session. Like, sure, they technically shared the bed last night, but that was totally a result of being black-out drunk, right? There’s no reason for Brock to think it’s now a permanent thing. Unless Elias said something along the lines of “if it helps you sleep, I don’t care” (because he knows Brock is a total touch-addict), and Brock took that to mean _ every night. _ Except Brock wouldn’t have remembered that, because he doesn’t remember any of that night—which Elias is more than happy about.

So, the long and the short of it is that he has no freaking clue.

He attempts to apologise, in the locker room, still completely unaware what he might have done wrong, but Brock appears to be his usual self (or, this new smiley, clingy version, actually.) Elias suspects Bo had a chat with him about realistic expectations of physical boundaries between bros. Which is great, because it means _ Elias _won’t have to initiate that chat.

“It’s chill, bro,” Brock says, slapping Elias on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble, inciting a round of laughs in the room. Everything seems to be water under the bridge, what with the complete lack of bad or complicated emotions in the guy’s eyes. Elias thinks maybe it’ll be alright.

But Brock’s even more handsy during practice. And then after, as they change, he’s virtually naked when he comes up and slings an arm around Elias’ also bare shoulders. It takes a huge effort not to flinch away from the hot, hot, skin contact. But eventually his brain works enough to remember that it’s totally normal for him to be a little bit of an asshole to Brock, so he shrugs out of the way and takes a step back to let his mind boot up again.

Brock doesn’t seem to be discouraged. He grins, another of these bright happy grins he’s been doing all today, and heads off to the shower. 

Not before slapping Elias on the backside, which Elias feels like a bolt of electricity despite the fact he’s still in his hockey pants and it barely made an impact. Brock’s never done that. Well, not to _ him._

Stech is chuckling to himself in the next stall, probably at the expression Elias knows he couldn’t keep off of his face. Fuck him, Elias is going through something.

\---

They go back to the hotel by coach and Elias dives into the empty seat next to Jake instead of sitting on his own, because he knows Brock would sit next to him and he still has no idea why he’s behaving so weird.

Best to avoid it until it goes away, really. That's the plan.

Not that burying his head in the sand has ever worked for Elias before.

\---

Most of the guys stay in the hotel bar that evening, just chilling before the stress and hustle of game day. The room is softly lit with these atmospheric lamps and the gentle noise of talking is weirdly pleasant, even though Elias can definitely hear some less-than-pleasant topics of conversation. 

Stechs is saying something to Bo about his girl, and Elias deems that a safe enough discussion to join. He hardly has much to add, being sad and gay and single, but he slumps down in the circle of armchairs they’re occupying and grunts a greeting.

The peace ends pretty quickly, because the talk turns to dogs and Stechs calls Brock over to verify something about Phoebe, his Bernese, and from there Elias' hopes of a quiet evening are dead in the water.

As the day tails off, guys going up to skype girlfriends or get an early night, the conversation in the circle of armchairs powers on. But Bo looks almost done and Brock keeps shooting Elias glances that might be concerned or something else, so when someone asks him, “You wanna get out of here?” he just nods mindlessly and levers himself off the chair.

Turns out it was probably Brock who asked, because that’s who’s following him as he heads for the foyer. They stand on the elevator in silence, but Brock’s got Elias tucked firmly under his arm and against his side so there’s nothing he can do to escape the tension that he may or may not be imagining is building up.

Brock’s going pretty fast down the hallway, dragging Elias along with him, but Elias is too busy trying not to fall on his face to spare a thought as to why there’s such a rush. He’s fumbling with the keycard, as well; almost drops it before Elias sighs and pulls it off him to do it right on his first try. 

Brock must really be tired, he thinks, to lose his basic coordination like that.

But Elias soon realises that Brock is not _ tired _at all.

Because as soon as the door closes behind them, Brock is pushing him up against it and—

Elias’ brain shorts out for a few precious seconds.

Oh.

_ Oh._

Brock's mouth is warm and insistent, and the perfect pressure. Elias swallows a moan as he's pressed even harder into the door, and—

And remembers, suddenly and horribly, that it's _ Brock. _

It's like a bucket of cold water over his head. He jerks, shoving Brock away and all but running out into the middle of the room.

"What the fuck," he spits, breath heaving. He feels sort of sick.

"I could ask the same thing!" Brock takes a step forward, and Elias takes one back. Maintaining the balance.

Brock's face looks as confused as Elias feels, and almost—well, almost afraid. Not like someone who just kissed a teammate for a prank.

Elias feels more unconnected than he has for a long time. It's like when he was still atrocious at English, and no matter how hard he tried, the meaning of people's words never made it through. Never formed proper ordered ideas.

Brock's face and words and actions don't line up with the order he knows of this world, of how they fit in it together.

"Do you not want—" Brock starts, swallows, tries a weak, lopsided smile. It does not inspire confidence, and neither does his tone. He sounds like he’s joking, but also like the wrong answer could break him. “Was last night just a one-time thing, then?”

Elias is very confused, okay. And it’s not like being thoroughly kissed up against a door by his admittedly very attractive best friend has had a positive effect on his ability to think logically. So this new piece of information does not process. Like at all.

“Last night?” he tries, weakly, hoping he can perhaps delay this conversation until his brain is back online.

“Uh..." Brock replies. “I mean, you were there, too, right? We woke up in the same bed?”

His voice tails off painfully towards the end of his sentence, possibly because Elias is unable to stop his face doing things that he knows it is currently doing. His heart is going like a jackhammer and his palms are all disgustingly clammy. Is this what a panic attack feels like?

“We—” he tries. Takes a breath. Tries again. “What—”

(There's no air in his lungs, which, he randomly thinks, is pretty concerning.)

They stand there in a frozen tableau surely befitting some dramatic Romantic painting for a long silent while, Brock looking at Elias so intensely that there’s no way he’s going to be able to find something to say that isn’t just a long, drawn-out, wordless scream.

Eventually Brock brings a hand up to swipe across his face. “Fuck,” he says, and his voice does not sound steady but at least he’s _ saying words _. “Elias, we finally freaking slept together and you’re acting like it just didn’t happen, and I don’t—I can’t do that, even if you can. So just. Tell me where we stand, please?”

He looks back at Elias, this horrible expression on his face that Elias doesn’t have the English to describe.

“We didn’t... sleep together, like _that,_” he eventually says. “I remember all of last night. And we didn’t do _ anything._”

He is not proud of his cold tone, or the way it makes Brock flinch. But sue him, he’s having a crisis too. Because now he’s _ imagining _it, imagining them together, and he can’t believe he didn’t realise before now how great that sounds.

He, maybe, actually wishes they had done something. Maybe.

“I don’t remember _ everything,_” Brock admits, avoiding eye contact now. “But I remember how you looked in the light of that club and I remember you telling me you were gay and I remember thinking, well what’s stopping us now?”

He glances up, meets Elias’ gaze for a second. It hurts more than it should when he rips it away again.

“And then we woke up in the same bed and you said—”

“What?” Elias prompts quietly, not sure if he actually wants to know. Brock’s face is steadily getting redder but he keeps going.

“You said it was pretty obvious _ why._ I guess I sort of just. Put two and two together.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Yet another tense silence. The English won’t order itself in Elias’ brain. There’s a lot to catch up on. Brock’s behaviour today is shone in an entirely different light, and it sort of makes sense. Aside from the bit where Brock makes it sound like he actually wanted to sleep with him. That’s the sticking point at the moment. It just—makes no sense whatsoever. Brock’s not gay. He’s definitely had girlfriends and definitely not shown any interest in guys. Even if he was, there’s no way that, out of the two of them, _ Brock _is the one hoping they’ll sleep together.

In this situation, that’s one hundred percent Elias.

Wait.

Hang on.

“God, I’ve made you so uncomfortable," Brock says as Elias still doesn’t say a word. “I’ll—I’m sorry, okay? I’ll apologise properly later. I just—I should go.”

Elias doesn’t have the time to protest before Brock is grabbing his bag and booking it like he’s got the devil on his tail.

  
Fuck. Jävla _helvete. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! again sorry for any mistakes, language grammar or other wise. what else - oh if you want me to explain the title I can try, ig
> 
> more is on the way!
> 
> if you enjoyed, please kudos/comment to let me know :) or, hit me up on tumblr at skapta-son <3 jvous aime tous


	2. dénouement, or, A Little More Conversation, Little Less Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bon anniversaire, Elias Pettersson! I hope you never see this!
> 
> salut, mes gars! I am so sorry that it has been a month, that is awful from me, but I pushed myself to get it done by today because i thought that would be neat, idk
> 
> again a huge thanks to L, thanks for dealing with me rushing you, sorry if i did not listen to something you said! (any english problems, let me know! it is not her fault)
> 
> thank you to everyone who kudos and commented, it really helps me keep motivation and it's great to see people appreciating what i write <3 jvous aime tous

The door doesn't slam behind Brock. It's one of those ones that has the controlled closing mechanism, so it just sort of drifts shut, slowly and calmly. Elias maybe kind of wishes that it did slam. That would possibly validate the way he feels like he's been hit by a two-by-four.

His legs do this weird thing where one moment he's standing in the middle of the room and the next he's collapsed onto one of the beds. He doesn't think he would be able to stand up even if he did want to chase after his liney.

Which he really doesn't.

He has no freaking clue what he would say—hell, he doesn't even know for _ himself _ half the emotions he's feeling. Wouldn't be able to express them in English or Swedish if you paid him. He’s surprised, sure. But there's more than surprise swirling round his head. 

All this, it sort of—changes things. Dramatically.

Which is why, of course, Elias doesn’t do a single thing about it.

\---

To be fair to Elias, he’s processing. It’s a big deal, and he needs some time for it to sink in. The problem is he’s awake all night replaying every second of interaction between them, trying to work out if maybe some English slipped through his notice, the part where Brock mentioned liking guys.

The problem is, he still hasn’t figured it out when he goes down to breakfast dead on his feet, and Brock looks even worse than Elias does. Which is saying something, because not getting his beauty sleep makes Elias look like a hung-over, beat up Martian with chronic bad hair day.

He doesn’t catch Brock looking at him once, and his usual seat next to Elias is horribly, blatantly empty. It’s sort of pathetic how much of the meal he spends watching from across the room as Brock lethargically makes his way through a pile of (low-fat, high fibre) pancakes. 

Brock might not notice, but Bo, who Brock is sitting next to on the "adult" table, definitely does. Unfortunately for Elias.

It isn’t until halfway through practice that he's accosted by their captain, although the extra time he gets is a pathetically small mercy. They’re skating individual puck-handling drills while they wait for the coaches to finish sorting out the gameplan, and Elias is behind Bo in the line so there’s really no way for him to escape.

They watch Brock complete the drill, and to be honest it doesn’t look good. He looks like he always does when he’s hungover or ill, all lethargic and slow. At one point he loses control of the puck and instead of chasing it down like he normally would, he just blankly watches it go. It’s as if he doesn’t even care, which Elias knows is the biggest red flag ever. Brock always cares, almost to a fault. Almost too much.

Bo turns to him, almost angry.

“What did you say to him?” he asks. Like he already knows.

“I—_ nothing,_” Elias replies, even though that’s not technically true. Although—what _ did _ he say? He actually said pretty much jack shit, and that’s the real problem here. Not his words, but the silence between them.

“Petey,” Bo says, frowning slightly. Elias hates it. That’s the already-patented Bo Horvat let down captain frown. “Brock was in a _ great _ mood last night. Then you two went upstairs, and when you come back down he's acting like he hasn’t slept for a week. Either you said something that messed him up, or there was some shit in his drink.”

Elias has gotta admit that that’s some pretty rock solid reasoning there. But it doesn’t make sense that it’s entirely his fault; Brock’s a damn good hockey player, not the kind to bring negative emotions onto the ice.

Then again, he’s also not the kind to blank someone the way he’s blanking Elias this morning.

Bo might actually have mind reading powers because he skates round to force Elias to look at him and nudges him with his stick, and asks again. “Petey? You got any reason why my top line winger is putting in less effort than a beer-league goaltender, on the morning of a Sharks game?”

Well. Elias can’t in good conscience say that he _ doesn’t _ have a pretty solid idea, but at the same time he can hardly _ tell Bo _ any of it. 

He wishes he had the English to find some way of telling the truth without actually outing either of them to their captain. But he doesn't, and he can't, so he stays quiet. 

By some miracle of God, Bo leaves then to go do the drill, and Elias is left off the hook. He doesn't feel very relieved, though, because there's still this horrible sour feeling that grows every second that Brock pretends he doesn't exist.

\---

He should have known the peace wouldn't last. Bo finds him again outside the guest locker room as he's leaving, and press-gangs him into lunch with him and Eagle.

Smart, really. Once they've sat down, Bo and Alex on the other side of the table like concerned parents or some shit, Elias knows that he isn't going to be allowed to just 'no comment' his way through this, not when Brock is so affected and it's obvious that he's got something to do with it.

_ “Come on then, out with it,” _Eagle says in Swedish, and Elias suddenly realises why both mom and dad are here. Bo’s gone and recruited a fucking Swede so the language barrier isn’t an excuse. What a move.

_“I can’t tell either of you,” _he replies. _ “That would be breaching Brock’s privacy.” _

Eagle murmurs something to Bo, who murmurs back. Elias is, very suddenly, done with his captains thinking they have the right to get all up in people’s private shit. Of course he gets that they’re concerned, but he can’t tell them any of it and that means this lunch is going nowhere.

Elias stands, wrapping his panini back up in its paper and spontaneously taking it to go. He manages to ignore Eagle’s reaction, despite the attention the angry Swedish is getting from the other patrons of the restaurant. 

\---

Elias is more nervous before the game than he has been for a long time. Brock only arrives once Bo is virtually tearing his hair out from the stress of their top winger going awol. He doesn’t look at Elias but he smiles apologetically at Bo and accepts a noogie from Stechs. Elias thinks, hopefully, that he maybe doesn’t look as bad as he did at breakfast, hopes that maybe there’s a chance for him to fix this.

Before the game would be ideal, but since Brock arrived so late there’s no time, and they’re heading for the ice sooner than he gets even one chance to catch Brock’s eye.

Then they’re playing the goddamn Sharks so he doesn’t have a spare second to dedicate any thought to personal problems. Except it is sort of a hockey problem, too, because Brock is barely communicating with him on the ice. That might not be the only reason they’re 0-0 at the end of the first, but it’s certainly not _ helping._

When they come back from intermission and immediately conceed a goal to fucking Brent Burns of all people, there’s enough anger and adrenalin coursing through Elias’ brain that he forgets.

He turns to Brock next to him as they settle down on the bench, on pure ingrained instinct.

"That rookie d-man," he starts. "He's drifting wide—"

"—when his forwards go on the forecheck, yeah," Brock finishes in a way that must be automatic, nodding decisively. "Let Millsy know. We'll go for that."

There's a second of silence and Brock looks sort of shell shocked, for a moment. His face shifts into this horrible sad expression, his eyebrows furrowing, before turning away to mutter something to Bo. Elias realises that's the first thing they've said to each other all day, and he feels something clench in his chest. If this is how it's going to be between them now, he doesn't know if he can deal with it. The thought of only ever speaking to Brock during games, only when they absolutely have to… well, it's not comfortable. 

It's horrible, actually. 

\---

He still goes out and skates, of course, with Brock on his wing. Elias’ mind doesn't stray from that defensive weakness and soon as they're on the ice at the same time as that rookie, it's game on.

Elias draws the forecheckers by wasting time in their half, passing to Mills and receiving again. He knows that Brock is keeping watch on the rookie, and as soon as he sees a flash of a white jersey out of the corner of his eye he guns for it, skates biting the ice, sprinting out wide to keep that d-man where his inexperience put him, and it works like clockwork.

Brock's there like a shadow, and Elias doesn't even have to _ look _ to tip the puck off to where he knows Brock is waiting. He’s colliding with the boards from his momentum as he twists to watch Brock deke the other defenceman and shoot a beautiful top-shelf over Jones’ shoulder.

Elias hardly notices the goal horn, though, because he’s paralysed. He’s just two metres away—close enough to get a front seat view of the way Brock is grinning, happy as anything, his joy at equalising the scoreboard plain on his face. Elias could have felt bitter about any number of things, but he doesn’t. Brock is _ beautiful _like this, scoring as if he was born to it, yelling in celebration, his face open and joyful and breathtaking.

Elias can barely keep his head above the water as a wave of emotion crashes through him. It’s overwhelming in its intensity and catastrophic in its weight, an unbearable flood of joy and admiration and affection that makes his knees almost buckle.

His head feels a bit light, and there's a weird tingling sensation in his fingertips, like they just want to reach out and _ touch. _His pulse is pounding and he knows it's not just from the exertion. It's like he's drunk, almost. Just from the sight, just from that feeling.

_ Fuck. _

Elias sags against the boards and hopes he can blame his inaction on being winded by the impact. Brock is being assaulted by a horde of white jerseys, congratulated (as he should be) on that beauty of a goal, and all Elias can do is hope that his entire inner thoughts aren’t being broadcasted across his face as he tries to pull himself together enough to go and say something bland like, _ nice shot. _

All Brock has for him is an impersonal slap on the back by the time he passes Elias on the way to the bench, having degaged himself from the dogpile. He might frown, a little, but his face turns away quickly and Elias can’t really see his expression. Being virtually ignored hurts, fresh and new in the light of what he just uncovered about his own… investment.

\---

Brock disappears somewhere during second intermission. As soon as Green has finished saying his piece, he's gone. Elias doesn’t know where, but he damn well can guess why. He feels a weird mix of worry and anger and something sharper boiling in his stomach.

Bo, though, unfortunately, isn’t going to let Elias wallow in his stall, not when Brock is missing. When it passes the five-minutes-before-the-third-period mark, he all but _ orders _Elias to go find his winger.

And Elias is maybe not in the right headspace for whatever will happen when he finds the guy, but he’s also not the kind of person to ignore his captain’s requests, so here he is, wondering through the corridors of the SAP Center searching for their goalscorer-gone-awol.

It doesn’t take too long; Brock is in one of the many random equipment rooms, staring at a rack of sticks as if they’ve personally offended him. He doesn’t notice Elias for a long while, not until Elias coughs. If anyone asks, it’s because it’s dusty in there. Not because he was dying, watching Brock do nothing, and just wanted to make a noise, any noise at all.

Brock jumps, actually physically jerks away from the sound, and it would be comical except it really isn’t.

“Jesus Christ, Petey!” he blurts. His voice is harsh and loud in the empty silence and Elias doesn’t want an argument but he thinks he might just get one.

“Why are you hiding?” Elias says, somewhat bluntly. It’s maybe not the best de-escalation of the situation but Brock just scoffs, so Elias keeps going. There’s something that feels like anger burning in his gut. 

“The team needs you in the locker room. You’re worrying people.”

_ You’re worrying me,_ he doesn’t say.

“Just let me alone,” Brock replies, voice tight. 

Elias shakes his head. “No.”

“God’s sake, Petey.” For the first time, Brock turns to look at him. He’s near shouting now. “Leave me alone.” 

“Brock—” Elias tries.

“Fuck off with that—face,” Brock interrupts, his mouth twisting into a horrible shape, his forehead scrunching like it _ hurts. _ “We both know you’re only here because someone _ sent _ you!”

That cuts. Because of course it’s true, really, but the truth is Elias would have come without hesitation if he only thought Brock actually _ wanted _ to see him. And the reason he let himself be forced was—well, was because he needed to see Brock alright, back with the team where he belongs, even if Brock has made it clear that he doesn't want to see or talk to or acknowledge Elias at all.

He takes a step forward, and Brock lifts an arm as if to ward him off, squaring up properly like they’re about to come to blows.

“Don’t,” he warns. “Don’t act like—”

Elias holds himself back from doing anything drastic in favour of waiting to hear what Brock has to say. Some corner of his brain is faintly impressed with his self control, but none of that fucking matters when Brock’s face looks like that, so terribly not-normal.

“Look, I know—” Brock starts. Swallows, and starts again. “I know I fucked everything up. Just don't—don’t make it harder by acting like you—” 

He looks down, and away, in such a un-Brock-like fashion that Elias feels a spike of dread.

“Don’t act like what?” Elias bursts. 

“Like you care,” he finishes, unnaturally quiet.

The cocktail of emotion swirling in Elias’ gut is a hurricane, now, his words spilling out of him with a thick, uncontrolled accent he's not proud of. “Don’t act like I _ care_? Well, newsflash, asshole, I do! If you would take one second to leave your own head you would notice what is going on here!”

“Well, tell me, then, if I’m too selfish to see it! What the fuck is going on, Petey, if it’s not you avoiding me?”

“I’m not fucking avoiding you, _ din idiot, _I—”

Now Elias could have said a number of things in this moment. _ You're the one avoiding me, _ perhaps, or _ so let's stop blanking each other. _ Even, if he's feeling truthful, _ I hate it when you're not talking to me. _They are all true, all meaning what he wants to mean, all working towards solving whatever this problem is.

But Elias doesn't say any one of those. No. 

He says—

“What?!” Brock shouts, and Elias says—

“I’m in love with you!”

\---

If Elias had thought that him coming out to Brock happened at the wrong time, then _ damn _this revelation is so much worse. It’s five minutes before the start of the third during a currently-tied game against the Sharks. They’re both full of adrenalin from the game and all the tension from the past two days that has built up into this near-screaming match. They’ve got twenty more minutes of hockey to play—hockey that relies on staying calm and working together and Elias may just have fucked all that up, grandly.

(He _ really _ didn’t mean to say that. It came out of nowhere.)

Brock is frozen. It’s horribly reminiscent of the first time Elias ran his mouth. Unfortunately, this time, there’s no alcohol to send him off to sleep and let Elias deal with it all another day.

“What?” he says again, but so so quiet.

“You heard me,” Elias replies. His voice is hoarse, and it could be the shouting or it could be the fear that’s coursing through him. He’s frozen too, rooted to the ground. Whatever Brock says next, he can’t escape it. He supposes that’s for the best. They’ve spent too much time not talking to each other. That’s what caused this whole mess in the first place.

“You—”

The thing is, it’s a surprise for both of them, but Elias still knows that it’s the truth. No take-backs. He’s kind of surprised that he didn’t figure it out earlier, to be honest. What with how he didn’t mind at all that Brock thought they slept together, and how he felt when he kissed him, and how it was some sick sort of torture when they weren’t talking.

“Yeah,” he sighs.

He’s ready for backlash of the worst kind so when Brock moves forward suddenly, he flinches. But Brock’s just wrapping him up in this huge hug, pulling him close and holding on tight and burying his face in Elias’ shoulder.

Elias is only wearing his UnderArmour and he thinks he can feel Brock pressing a wide, wide smile into his neck through the fabric.

"God, Petey," he thinks he hears. “Don't sound so scared."

It sounds like he might have had more to say, but the world is done with their private moment and decides to interrupts in the form of a short, angry defenceman.

"There you are, Jesus. Horvy's about to shit himself—"

Stech tails off when he sees the way Brock is clinging onto Elias. 

“Oh… kay,” he says, drawing out the vowel. “Well, just, speed it up, I guess? Play starts in a few.”

Brock pulls away and Elias tells himself he doesn't miss the warmth—plus whatever important shit he was about to say. But they really do need to go and get ready for the last period. 

They walk back together, trailing like reprimanded kids behind a frustrated Stech, and Elias can't be imagining the intention behind the way their shoulders keep bumping. He doesn't look at Brock, can't bring himself to, but he also can't believe that it could mean anything _ bad. _

Once they get to the room it's a rush to prepare for the next period amid a storm of chirps that are definitely more annoyed than amused. Elias can't blame the guys. They're trailing by one goal going into the third and him and Brock disappearing can only make it look like maybe they don't care as much as they should. Elias knows how far that is from the truth; knows how much Brock does care, how much of himself he pours into this team. It's just that, at the moment, there's other things on both of their minds. 

He tries not to worry too much about the way Brock is sort of acting like nothing happened. Like Elias didn't freaking pour his heart out, back in that equipment room. 

It’s fine. 

He needs to focus on the game anyway.

\---

Despite Elias’ worries there is a noticeable difference in the way their line performs in the third. They're communicating off the ice, for one, which Elias is hugely relieved about, although he doesn't quite know how their chat in the equipment room did anything to help that situation.

Well, he knows what a part of him is _ hoping _that means, even if he doesn't want to do so much as think it, in case it isn't true. 

He shakes his head at himself._ Game, there's a game, focus on the game. _

(He's never had so much trouble doing that as he does in this last period. It feels like whenever he has a spare second he’s imagining Brock’s face again, trying to work out whether that hug was reciprocation or pity, trying to remember the words that he didn’t really process in the moment. It’s not the first time that he wishes he were better at English, but it might be his most desperate.)

He doesn’t let it takeover his mind completely but the team doesn’t deserve the way he still fails to produce in the third. He gets a bunch of shots and he’s in the zone on the ice, for sure, but too much of his time on the bench is spent dwelling on things he has no control over instead of trying to plan a play, like the one that got them their only goal of the game so far.

When the final horn goes with nothing to show for the period, Elias swears and slams his bottle down just a little too hard.

\---

OT comes and goes with nothing to show on either side, so they end up in a shootout, which literally no one on the Canucks is happy about. Elias is just relieved they got through overtime, though, if he's being honest, because there's something so chaotic about the Sharks when things get close to the wire.

Not that the shootout is any more controllable.

Like. Sure, Elias trusts and believes in his teammates. But watching them take the ice alone, watching Marky out there with only a Shark for company—it's not fun. Elias likes to control things, alright? Likes to direct, likes to plan, likes to know exactly what's going on. He's not feeling very at ease with how out of his hands this situation is.

And, okay, maybe he's not talking specifically about hockey anymore. 

  
  
  


The Sharks choose to shoot second so Brock is up immediately. He doesn't look too nervous as he loops gracefully around the ice, but Elias knows the pressure of that moment. It's not fun, even for someone who can easily shake off that stuff like Brock can. He takes a moment to bitch about the NHL insisting on shootouts with Quinn, sat beside him on the bench, as they watch Brock skate past.

But he finds he doesn't care much about the uselessness of shootouts when Brock turns on the gas. He sprints towards the puck, and Elias’ heart is suddenly in his throat.

Brock collects the puck smoothly, and he's going so fast that he's practically at the crease in the time it takes for Elias to blink. He slows, and dekes, drawing Jones to the left before darting right and shooting off a beautiful chip—

There's fractions of a second in it but Jones’ glove just about gets there. He's saved it. 

The crowd roars, all worked up with the tense game and the admittedly brilliant save, but Elias is watching Brock shake his head and drift back towards the bench. He is halfway over the boards when he looks up at the screen to catch a replay, and Elias notices him wince to see how close that puck actually was to crossing the line.

Marky’s settling into the crease now. Elias thumps Brock’s shoulder in commiseration as they lean up against the boards to watch Labanc have his go. 

(He'd like to say that he never doubted Marky but he does let out a sigh of relief when Labanc’s attempt at going five-hole is denied.)

Green puts Pearse up next, but he misses what would have been a highlight-reel top-shelf shot by a matter of inches and returns to the bench with a sour face. Elias thanks god that Couture misses too, but then he's told to get out on the ice with only Martin Jones between the Canucks and a win. If he scores now, that's it. He doesn't score, then the Sharks have the opportunity to steal it in sudden death.

He gets a couple encouragements from the guys near him, which always helps, but Brock gives him a broad smile when he glances quickly over as he's straddling the boards and—

—well, Elias is so relieved that Brock doesn't appear to like, hate him now, and he's so ridiculously warmed by that smile, that he barely notices the pressure. Or the screaming Sharks fans, or Jones’ posturing. 

_ (Finish this now, _ he thinks, _ and you're minutes away from finding out if that smile means all that you want it to mean.) _

He does a few little arcs, getting a feel for the ice under his skates. Then he pushes off, and the fans start booing, as Sharks fans do, but all he focuses on is the scrape of his blades and the tiny amount of resistance he can feel against his stick as he collects the puck.

And maybe also the way Brock's smile had sent warmth fizzing through him, all the way down to his fingertips. Sue him. 

(Some people might consider that a distraction, but Elias finds he normally _ needs _ some sort of distraction, if only to stop him overthinking the shot. He already knows what he’s going to do, and how to do it, and he knows his legs and his hands will do what they're supposed to, and the result is down to how Jones reacts, which is out of his control.)

So yeah, he's thinking about Brock as he speeds towards the goal, dekes once, slows, dekes twice, shoots five-hole—

And scores. _ Hell _ yeah. 

The horn goes off, loud and glorious, but Elias can barely hear it because as soon as he gets near the bench he's swarmed by Canucks, Mysie and Pearse and then Bo, Tanny, Stech, all of them piling over the boards to tap him on the head. Another crowd is forming around Marky, who Elias knows probably deserves it more than he does. 

He starts to head over to offer a head-tap of his own when suddenly it's Brock in front of him and he has to execute a hurried short stop to avoid a collision.

Turns out that was futile, because Brock seems _ intent _ on a collision. He crashes into Elias with wide arms and a broad smile, wrapping him up in a tight hug.

Now Elias loves hockey hugs as much as the next player but he’s especially fond of _ Brock's _ hockey hugs so he just leans into it, not caring that it's a bit of an excessive reaction or the fact that by now, they're alone, the only ones not in the Marky-huddle, and there's definitely going to be a camera or two watching.

Plus the like, thousands of Sharks fans, whatever.

Brock pulls back and grins and slams a hand on top of Elias’ helmet and yells—

“I fucking love you, Petey!”

Elias’ heart skips traitorously, and then sinks almost as quickly. This is how they’re going to do it, then. Brock’s going to _ I love you bro _ his way out of it, and Elias is going to spend the rest of their time playing together regretting saying anything, regretting letting himself hope.

Some of that must show on his face, he thinks, because Brock frowns, minutely. He pulls away properly from the hug but slings an arm around Elias’ shoulders, maintaining the close contact that is starting to feel suffocating.

“Love you too, Bess.” Elias says, trying to project the most buddies vibe he possibly can to cover up how it kind of _ really hurts. _

Brock shakes his head a little and leans in until their cheeks are close together, tugs Elias along towards Marky, as if they’re just talking about a play from the game.

“I mean it," he says, hushed, right in Elias’ ear. “And not in a bros way. I think I _ love you _ . Like, in a completely _ non-bros _way.”

Elias can barely _ think. _ It's like that moment after Brock's goal all over again, except better. Far, far better. This wave of emotion is exhilarating, now that he knows Brock feels it too. He can’t stop a grin from splitting his face in two, but it’s alright because Brock is beaming as well, and _ Brock loves him. _He just can’t quite believe it, no matter how much he might have let himself hope.

  
  


Elias is rudely awoken from his rêverie by a vicious slap on the head and a loud voice in his ear.

“That was a _ beaut, _Petey!” Stech yells, interrupting the moment for the second time today. Elias obediently turns and slaps Stech in return, and he sort of wants to slide back under Brock’s arm but most of the guys are already heading for the room and they’ll have to hurry unless they want this to be the shortest kept secret in Canucks history.

Shit, there’s a _ ‘this’ _ now. That’s a thing that might happen. Brock loves him too and there could be a _ them. _

\---

Elias is called to do media and he's actually kind of glad about that, for once, because it dramatically reduces the chance of him embarrassing himself when a half-naked, perhaps-no-longer-off-limits Brock Boeser is in the mix. By the time he's out of the shower, having taken what is admittedly an extra long time to warm his aching limbs and relax himself from the rollercoaster this game has been, most of the guys are pretty much dressed, some already gone to the bus.

Brock is waiting for him in the neighbouring stall, and he sits there as Elias gets slowly dressed, not _ watching _ but not—not exactly _ avoiding looking _either.

It's new but it's not a completely foreign feeling, which makes Elias thinks that maybe Brock has been looking for a while. Then again, he's pretty sure that he has been doing the same for longer, probably since before even he knew why.

\---

They're all shattered from the roadie and the long, hard-fought game but most of the team still goes out for drinks that night, ordering Ubers downtown basically as soon as they arrive back at the hotel. Elias is somewhat reluctant considering what happened the last time he went out with the team, but one pleading face from Brock and he's telling himself that it all turned out okay in the end, didn't it, and there's something he wants to celebrate that isn't his shootout goal.

He refuses to drink as much as he did last time, though, no matter what Virts is saying about making the most out of being able to buy his own drinks in America now.

That means he's at a pleasantly warm, fuzzy level the whole evening, leaning into Brock in one corner of the huge booth they've all taken over, exchanging chirps of the guys who are attempting to dance and playing a childish game of footsie under the table. He doesn't even care that everyone can surely see the way he's pretty much constantly smiling at Brock's everything, giddy with the knowledge that he's not alone in this, like he assumed for so long.

  
  


(Brock kisses him when they get back to the hotel room, all hesitant and achingly gentle. They get ready for bed side by side, taking breaks every so often to learn how they fit together. Brock pulls him into the bed with him and they're both far too tired and too tipsy to start anything but Elias finds himself wishing they could stay in this moment forever, curled up together and warm and safe and comfortable, like nothing else in the world matters.

“Are we doing this, then?” Brock asks, when it's been so long that Elias assumes he's asleep. “Boyfriends?”

Elias can't help the grin that spreads across his face or the warmth that spreads through his chest. “Yeah," he replies, poking Brock's stomach because it's about the only thing he can get to in this position. “Boyfriends sounds great.”)

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! please don't hesitate feedback etc, comments always enjoyed
> 
> i'm on tumblr! @skapta-son (don't know how to link it yet, oops!)  
come yell at me about these boys or anything else :)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! again sorry for any mistakes, language grammar or other wise. what else - oh if you want me to explain the title I can try, ig
> 
> more is on the way!
> 
> if you enjoyed, please kudos/comment to let me know :) or, hit me up on tumblr at skapta-son <3 jvous aime tous


End file.
